


Through the Rifle's Sights

by dogmatix, norcumi



Series: Ghosts of 66 [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Canonical Character Death, GFY, Gen, Post Order 66
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-03
Packaged: 2018-02-27 19:16:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2703419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogmatix/pseuds/dogmatix, https://archiveofourown.org/users/norcumi/pseuds/norcumi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Wolfpack survived the end of the Clone Wars. Their General, Plo Koon, didn't.  Now, as the Empire rises from the ashes of the Republic, Wolffe and his brothers discover that mere survival isn't the same as living.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Through the Rifle's Sights

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by several folks on Tumblr, and [Ready, Aim, Fire](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rRkS7CdbxD8) by Imagine Dragons.

Warthog was bringing the gunship in hot, faster than they’d ever done in the war.

Then again, a lot of things weren’t like they’d been in the war.

Wasn’t peace supposed to be something worth working towards?

Wolffe shook off the useless thoughts, checking the telemetry feed in his HUD. Almost there.

“Go go go!” Warthog hollered into the com, popping the doors open.

Charging into a firefight used to be a risky proposition. They still had blaster bolts everywhere – sounded like Sinker took a non-lethal hit, from the swearing – but this was a whole new kind of slaughter.

Five minutes after leaving the gunship, the Wolf Pack had the landing area secured. Out of the not-quite two dozen rebels manning the base, only four were neither teenagers nor elders. Only two were alive.

Comet took care of that.

No one deserved to get carted off to Coru – Imperial Center to meet the Emperor’s tools.

Wolffe took a long look around the crudely constructed bunker. He was uninjured. Sinker was fighting one-handed to get a bacta pack on his shoulder. Boost, Comet, and Spitter were calmly, grimly taking care of clean-up. Warthog had the gunship ready to take off, and it looked like the bombs were ready to clear the last of this rebel hideout.

“Clean job, boys,” he declared. “At your discretion.”

* * *

Some days, the walk through the barracks to his small quarters seemed to stretch on forever. There were more and more faces he didn’t recognize around the place. Basic humans, not clones, looked like they were going to be the new standard for Imperial grunts. So many of them looked at him and blanched at the scar through his cybernetic eye, as if it was anything more than a symbol that he had survived. He’d done well, he’d been a good soldier, and he was still here to fight.

The Wolf Pack was too damn good at fighting to get parceled out to the boonies, the former Separatist planets where the peace needed to be kept under the yoke of absurd new taxes and draconian laws to support the new galactic order.

They got to go out, find Rebels, and handle any problems.

He actually missed the clankers.

Wolffe stopped at the door to his quarters, taking a bracing breath before walking in.

It happened again. Something about doorways fucked with his cybernetics. He’d gone to see four different specialists, but of fucking course they hadn’t found _anything_.

It was flashes of dark red and hints of black and occasional faded orange.

Every fucking time he saw that, he had to fight down a slam of loss and nostalgia, peppered with a strident, desperate denial and guilt.

He couldn’t afford to go crazy. They needed him, and his personal reputation to keep the Pack as its own, independent unit. If they got folded into a larger company, they’d have to answer to one of the new officers. All of those bastards were human, and seemed to think that clones were barely a step above Hutts, and possibly less useful.

He would not let his squad down.

* * *

Fuck, his hands were shaking. When the _hell_ had that last happened? Certainly not since he was a shiny, and probably not even then.

His hands were shaking. He suspected his eyes were a little wild with panic, but that was what helmets were for. The post-op briefing had been conducted in the safety of the gunship, he’d walked with the usual confident stride away from the landing pad, and he was now safe in his quarters.

He should have been dead. Wolffe closed his eyes and tried to breathe, but that only meant he saw the blaster bolt in his mind’s eye again.

They’d been hunting Rebels for months now, and the bastards were learning how to go to ground. They’d cleared out another nest, but they’d missed one. He’d heard something, the faintest scuff of a boot behind him when his squad was in front of him, and Wolffe had turned to see the bright flash of a blaster bolt careening towards his head.

Close range.

Full power.

Stormtrooper armor was manufactured on the cheap. His old wolf-marked helmet would have probably absorbed and redistributed enough of the blow to keep him critical until there was bacta, but this was a death-shot.

There’d been a flash of blue, which had impacted the blaster bolt, _deflecting_ it. It had been the tiniest modification to the path, sending it screaming past Wolffe’s ear as the rest of the Pack took down the last Rebel.

Someone’s grandma, by the look of her. He wasn’t sure if her being successful would have been pathetic, or poetic justice.

The galaxy wasn’t poetic, there wasn’t justice _anywhere_ , so that really left only one choice. He ripped his helmet off and tossed it aside, letting it smack on the floor and not giving a damn, since it wasn’t like there was design-work to be careful of, no markings to be found, no hints of anything but a soulless ghost of a monster. Two quick steps had Wolffe over a the tiny storage cubby, and he yanked it open, grabbing the bottle of booze out. Shit, it was half empty; hadn’t he bought it just before the mission? Shouldn’t be this empty, but fuck, no one had been in his room except him.

He ignored the answer, opening it with shaking hands. The last couple of weeks, he’d done this more and more. He’d _needed_ it more and more.

Good thing hazard pay could cover a new bottle tomorrow.

He stopped, cold disbelief snarling through his guts as he felt a hand settle lightly on his shoulder. It was the faintest touch, almost insubstantial and far too familiar. It was a hint of restraint without insistence, a request from one friend to another.

He knew the touch. A broad, gloved palm. Four wide fingers, the next to last one with a decorative, but heavyweight bit of ceremonial armor that made a single point of contact further down.

He could almost _hear_ the plea, the deep rich tones of that familiar voice echoing behind a mask. _No, Wolffe. Don’t do this to yourself._ He hunched forward, eyes clenched tight, feeling that hand that could not be real, _could not be there_ drop away.

Wolffe forced himself to breathe, to take in slow breaths no matter how much they shook and rattled through his throat. He _would_ maintain control.

Plo had taught him this too, in those nightmarish days after Ventress had proven she had a sick fascination with removing people’s eyes. He’d had some near panic attacks as he’d gotten used to the cybernetics, as he was adjusting to the reality of being less than he had been, and realizing that it didn’t matter a damn.

He _wasn’t_ less.

He was a soldier, a clone trooper.

He would fight.

He would not disappoint his General.

When his breathing could pass as normal, Wolffe very precisely set down the bottle, placing the cap next to it. It wasn’t even good booze. Rotgut like that could sit open, and if he wanted it later –

“No,” he muttered to himself.

Had to be to himself. He was the only one in the room, after all.

Wolffe turned sharply and flopped down onto the bed. Wouldn’t be the first time he’d slept in his armor.

He sprawled on his back, arm over his eyes because he need an excuse, needed to hide and pretend that he wasn’t crying. He figured it’d be a long night, and he’d make some excuse in an hour or two about needing to rehydrate. That was what the booze was for, after all. Getting to sleep.

Instead he dropped off all on his own. For the first time in memory, there were no nightmares. There weren’t the recent guilt-laden scenarios where he witnessed Jedi after Jedi mowed down by clones, all of his brothers reduced to identical, emotionless copies with no individuality or humanity. There weren’t the older nightmares, the ones where in different ways he would take out whatever Jedi was his immediate commanding officer, or even just in the vicinity.

This...was stranger. It was a simple dream, of Plo sitting cross-legged on his floor. His lightsaber was lit and ready, but the Kel Dor held it like a torch, not a weapon, nothing that would strike at Wolffe.

 _Things_ moved in the darkness beyond the protective blue glow of the lightsaber. Wolffe knew the misshapen forms were his nightmares, and yet he was safe, shielded.

General Koon guarded his dreams that night, keeping those nightmares at bay.

For the first time since he’d heard the Emperor issue Order 66, Wolffe slept the night through.

* * *

Wolffe had seen enough strange shit over the years that he’d decided to believe he wasn’t _too_ crazy. It was as if that strange dream had been a sign, a signal to the entire Wolf Pack. The next time he saw Plo out of the corner of his eye, it was the middle of a firefight, and Warthog started cursing at the exact moment the General showed. Since there was a Rebel sneaking around that same corner, both he and Wolffe were looking the right way to not have blasterfire coming down their backs.

He didn’t ask. It was obvious from Warthog’s pale face, and in the tightness around Boost’s mouth when they finally removed their helmets.

Two others had seen the General.

None of them said anything about it. In some sense there was no need.

Wolffe found other things to talk about. That day, he pushed himself, lingering after they’d returned to the barracks. He...had a conversation. It felt awkward and stilted, yet strangely he was not the only one who needed to work at it. When he finally went back to his quarters, Wolffe felt better than he had in awhile. He was fairly certain that Boost and Sinker had also appreciated the time chatting.

It felt just a little closer to how things had been.

The strange dreams continued, every night after the first. Wolffe would dream of himself, located wherever he was, be it barracks, cruiser, or some other pisspot planet they would need to bomb the local Rebels out of. General Koon would be nearby, lightsaber at the ready.

The nightmares always prowled around outside the General’s reach.

Two missions and several weeks after Warthog and Boost saw the General, Wolffe was certain that every man in the squad had seen Plo Koon’s ghost at least once. He kept showing up in battle, a figure that would wave to warn of incoming enemies, locate the occasional trap, or on rare occasions, as the simple cobalt flash of a lightsaber so faintly redirecting a deadly blaster shot.

They didn’t talk about it. It was written on their faces, it showed in their body language. The Pack knew each other well enough to know.

Wolffe saw the General fairly often, particularly in his quarters and more and more often when walking through doorways.

A month and a half of dreams passed, along with who knew how many Rebel lives and seven missions. It was a cold, slow morning, and when Wolffe walked out of the ‘fresher he could see Plo seated on his equipment trunk.

It was right near where he’d found a bug two weeks ago, recording the room’s audio. It had been a simple matter to fake clumsiness and smash the damn thing. He hadn’t found any since, so he suspected it was standard procedure, not that he was under suspicion for something.

The Empire did not trust anyone, not even her soldiers.

 _Especially_ not her soldiers.

Not when those soldiers had helped overthrow the Republic before it.

He’d had a bad night, with the dreams actively lunging out of their circle to try to attack him. Grotesque beasts and twisted figures fell to General Koon’s lightsaber, the Kel Dor making easy work of his opponents. Part of Wolffe had grieved at the almost supernaturally agile moves of his General, moves he'd seen so often during the war, and would only now see in dreams.

Wolffe stopped in the middle of the room, hesitant and unsure of what he wanted to do, let alone what he _should_ do. He finally cleared his throat, not able to look directly at Plo. “I...appreciate the – the dream...thing.” It wasn’t his imagination, the way the General’s head cocked to the side a little curiously. Wolffe had to fight to get the words past the guilt, the sorrow all lumping together in his throat. “But you should probably go visit the others too, Sir. S’not that _any_ of us deserve your forgiveness, but...it shouldn’t be just me.”

The General stood, walking calmly over to Wolffe as if the Jedi were still alive, as if the equipment trunk weren't clearly visible through him, and as if there weren't just a faint tint of blue to him, like a particularly realistic holo. He put an almost insubstantial hand on Wolffe’s shoulder.

For the first time, Wolffe heard words. Not just a feeling wrapped in the memory of speech patterns and coupled with impossible insights. _Words_.

“ _I do. You’re the only one who sees me clearly yet._ ”

The tiny weight on Wolffe’s shoulder disappeared as the General faded out, gone again.

* * *

Wolffe kept talking with the others in the squad, breaking down the ice that had built up since the Empire was born. They started gathering again after battles. The gatherings weren't celebrations, not the way they'd been before. There wasn't the simple, uncomplicated joy that a soldier and his brothers had made it through another day, another battle -- if you could even call the one-sided skirmishes 'battles.'

Now, their gatherings were about mutual support - hearing and seeing their brothers, knowing that they were alive, and _there_.

That Plo was still there.

It began with the occasional sabacc game, or cleaning weapons together. Sometimes they just sat, enjoying a moment of quiet. Wolffe would softly declare when the General was present, and the air in the room would relax a little, almost a faint slump in relief.

When Comet tossed off a casual, lazy salute before placing a new bet one game, Wolffe felt something inside ease. They all saw Plo Koon clearly now. Transparent, blue – he was still _their_ General.

Maybe they were all crazy, decanted wrong or prone to hallucinations, but fuck, at least they were together.

* * *

A brief skirmish had stretched out to hours of winding deeper and deeper into a tunnel complex. The Rebels were well organized here, able to perform a reasonable fighting retreat. Warthog had pulled out earlier with Spitter, who had bitterly protested that his leg wasn’t fucking well broken, he could walk just fine, and the smoking hole in his arm was decorative.

The rest of the Pack had cautiously split up, tracking down the last few pockets of stubborn corpses that needed to stop firing back. On his way back to the rendezvous point, instinct – or perhaps a brief flicker of red in the corner of his eye – had Wolffe spinning, blaster up and firing.

The Rebel dodged, was already dropping to the ground. The Togruta bared her pointed teeth at him in a futile display of courage, the blaster with an empty charger at her feet.

She was a child, really. Couldn’t be older than Skywalker’s padawan – _Plo’s friend Ahsoka_ – had been when he’d seen her last. When she’d left the Jedi. Hunted down by the Pack, every available clone on Coruscant, and all for no reason.

Framed, for something she hadn’t done.

Just another victim.

He didn’t think too hard about it. Wolffe lifted his blaster, jerking his head towards a tunnel he cleared that should go all the way to the side exit. “Go!” The snarl was barely human, barely understandable, but the Togruta spun and was gone before he could inhale to say more.

Stormtrooper helmets were manufactured on the cheap. The helmet cams were near the surface, where a mostly glancing blaster shot could easily shatter the recorder and memory without doing more than singe a trooper’s hair.

His squad gave him quick looks, but no questions.

Wolffe stayed quieter than usual – the new usual – through the Pack’s trip to Medical. Spitter’s bacta bath was for a broken leg, a fractured leg, and a mess of an arm that even the med droids hadn’t seemed to know how to appropriately classify other than “a mess.” They’d cleaned their weapons together in his quarters, the others leaving quietly with a nod or quick touch to his shoulder.

Having to replace his helmet meant that Wolffe was still at it, calibrating the piece of crap after they were gone. It was just him and Plo, the Jedi cross-legged on the floor as if in meditation.

He made himself talk, even if he couldn’t look at Plo. “Why _don’t_ you hate us?”

There was the impression of one of the General’s thoughtful pauses. Wolffe glanced up, then nodded to himself. The Kel Dor sat with his head tilted in consideration, then he shrugged, almost in resignation. Wolffe could feel affection, loyalty from outside himself, the way Plo found it easiest to communicate with him. _What could you have done? What could any of us have done?_ were the almost-words he couldn’t quite hear.

His dreams that night were quieter. The monsters were fewer, and rarely approached the protective circle of light, leaving Wolffe and Plo sitting together in companionable silence, shoulder to shoulder.

* * *

“I’m going to desert.”

The sabacc game stopped cold, the rest of the Pack putting down their cards. It said a lot that they were staring at Wolffe, but not gaping.

Warthog glanced over at Plo, who gave the quick hand signal for “all clear.” “Joining the Rebellion?”

Wolffe shook his head. “Don’t know yet. But I can’t take this anymore. We’re soldiers. We’re not supposed to be butchers.”

He expected it, but that didn’t make him any less relieved as the Pack nodded, fierce and with him still.

The next mission was two days after that. Another Rebel base to clear out and blow to hell. It was never enough for the Empire to win, to destroy. She had to make sure her enemies were lessons in futility for future corpses.

They already had the explosives. They made their way to the compound, stopping in the woods outside the least protected wall. It was the obvious point of incursion. The lack of guards meant either the Rebels were clueless and fucking up – again – or that it was a trap.

That possibility made it all the sweeter.

It was quick and easy work to shed the stormtrooper gear, piling it near their planted explosives. Wolffe didn’t like being out of his armor, even if it was the despicable unmarked crap, but there had to be evidence. Comet tossed down the contents of the bag he’d brought, a pile of meat making the usual sickening sound as it landed.

Biological evidence. Necessary. Wolffe had no idea if it was human, and he wasn’t about to ask.

The Rebel guard patrolling along the compound’s roof legitimately caught them with their guard down. They were lucky he decided to shout and point before shooting. The Pack took off, jinking through the woods. Wolffe waited as long as he could, then detonated the explosives.

Turned out the Rebels had been smart enough to set a trap. The explosion was at least twice the size he’d expected, catching Sinker and Wolffe at the edge of the blast. Wolffe's back was crispy, but not as burned as it could've been. Sinker was worse off, having been slammed between two trees with his foot caught firmly on something - a root or a rock, most likely.

They made it back to their supply cache in reasonable time, so Sinker had kept the foot, but it was a little too close to not faking their deaths. Once Bacta patches had been applied as necessary and civilian clothes tugged on over stormtrooper undersuits, the Pack started walking. Wolffe took point, then grinned as the translucent blue form of General Koon materialized in front of him – right where Plo had always preferred to be. The General glanced back at him with a Kel Dor smile, then turned back to finding a reasonable path. It was pretty clear the General didn’t know where they were going any more than the Pack did, but for now any direction leading away would do, and their General picked as uncluttered and easy a path for them as he could.

Wolffe wasn’t too sure where they were headed either, but they were ranging free together.

 _All_ of them.

**Author's Note:**

> Holy carp, there is fan art. :D
> 
> Piekielna has [Plo asking Wolffe to not fall into the bottle](http://piekielni.deviantart.com/art/Don-t-do-this-to-yourself-609790003), as well as [the Pack escaping](http://piekielni.deviantart.com/art/All-of-them-609798239). Lovely colors and lines and ever so many feels!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Patrząc przez muszkę](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7028644) by [snylilith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snylilith/pseuds/snylilith)




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